


It's Time / Years

by busaikko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Marauders' Era, Post - Goblet of Fire, Pre - Order of the Phoenix, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-23
Updated: 2006-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is born; Lying Low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Time / Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetic_pole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetic_pole/gifts).



**It's Time**

It's time, Sirius said, and yanked the blanket off. Get your lazy arse up.

Remus coughed, the wearying wheezing cough that didn't go away no matter how hard he ignored it. He sat up, because that was what Sirius wanted him to do, and he shoved his aching feet into his broken boots, and when Sirius lit the fireplace he stuck a fag in and managed to get two good drags before Sirius worked the lid off the biscuit tin that they kept the Floo powder in.

Bloody hell, what are you thinking, Sirius said, and twitched Remus' cigarette from his mouth, tossed it in the fire. Remus was too tired to protest about the waste, too tired to think about much as he followed Sirius into the green flames.

James caught Sirius as he stumbled out of the fireplace, grabbing him around the waist and spinning him in a circle. Remus shuffled off to the side of the kitchen, where Lily's mother was standing. Congratulations, he said, wishing he had thought to shave, or put on clean clothes.

Do you want to hold him? she asked, and the blanket-wrapped bundle was already in trajectory before he could open his mouth to say anything. She slipped the tiny head into the crook of his arm: the baby was small enough that his arse fit entirely in Remus' hand.

The baby's eyes were still swollen shut; his hair was jet black and stood up in downy tufts, although he didn't have eyebrows yet. Mrs Evans played with one tiny, wrinkled hand, letting the fingers grasp and let go and grasp again. She smiled up at Remus and his eyes flooded, suddenly, helplessly.

He hadn't realised until then how alien trust had become to him; and how starved he was for it.

* * *

 **Years**

He was just this little baby, Sirius said, watching Remus' hands prepare the supper. Every meal was simple, but the way Remus touched the food was reverent. Now he's a teenager. So old.

Remus chopped the pepper fine and added it to the onion. How old are you? he asked. In your head? He considered a potato; then chose two. That's rather a rude question, isn't it. Never mind.

I stopped, Sirius said. I stopped counting years. I'm much, much older than twenty-two, but the idea that I'm almost forty is -- incomprehensible.

The numbers don't really convey, Remus said, lining his curry spices up neatly on the countertop he'd just wiped down.

No.

No. Remus watched the garlic in the pan to keep it from scalding; and then his hands performed their magic, adding ingredients and spices in a choreography that spoke of experience.

That, Sirius thought, was the difference. He had only emptiness where so many years of experiences were meant to be. Even Remus had more of that wealth than he did. He never would have thought it, all those years ago.

You're quiet, Remus said, setting a dish of rice and a dish of curry in front of him.

Do you remember when Harry was born? Sirius asked, and Remus smiled.

That was a night.

You took one look at Harry's face and went all to pieces. We thought you'd be the next to have children of your own. I never expected -- Sirus waved a hand at the tidy, tiny, empty flat -- this. Not for you. When I thought of you, in Azkaban, I imagined you'd have family.

Remus shrugged. It never worked out that way.

Why not? Sirius asked.

Remus leant his chair back on two legs and gave Sirius a flat stare that was nearly a stranger's, except for the odd glint of humour. I learnt to cook curry in Kolkata, and I was forced to flee New Zealand because the sheep didn't take to me. I've been in gaols on three continents. I've seen men necklaced, and fed children with kwashiorkor, and taught in one-room schools, and in slums, and in tents.

He picked up his spoon and twirled it absently around his knuckles. There's more than one way to connect to our essential humanity, you know. The lantern light flashed against the lazy arc of the spoon: Sirius found it easier to watch than Remus' eyes, which were watching him. All those years, Remus said, quietly, softly. All those years weren't _nothing_. They are... what you define them to be.

Maybe I was waiting, Sirius said finally. Maybe the right time just had to come to make that essential connection.

Remus settled his chair down with a bump, the spoon dropping to the table as he set his elbows on the table for emphasis. Maybe I was waiting, too, he said.


End file.
